"Дон Пендлтон. Death Squad ("Палач" #2) " - читать интересную книгу автора

I'll be fading across the nearest horizon."
"You want me to kick the hell right outta you?" Zitka fumed.
This isn't your war," Bolan said quietly. "No need for you to get
involved."
"Shut up, just shut up!" Zitka said angrily. "I wouldn't even be here
if you hadn't dragged my riddled ass out of Phung Duc."
"I just don't want..."
"Screw what you don't want. You came here, didn't you? Awright, you're
here, and I ain't blowing no whistles! Let's just get these stiffs to hell
out of my apartment. Then we'll figure out what to do next. But you ain't
fading across no horizons, buddy." He held out his hand, and Bolan gripped
it tightly. "Now unless I'm up there scoutin' for you."
They shook hands solemnly, then stood quietly surveying the latest
carnage of The Executioner's war. Bolan kicked lightly at a dead foot.
"Don't suppose anybody's tumbled to the gunfire yet," he murmured. "Not with
all the other racket around here. What kind of joint is this, Zit? Does this
noise go on all the time?"
"Just about." Zitka smiled. "Places like this are the new scene, Mack.
Residence club, it's called- for swinging singles only. I had to lie about
my age to get this apartment. Would you believe I'm in the older
generation?"
Bolan chuckled. The guys over in "Nam don't really know what they're
fighting for, do they? Well... I'm driving a 'Vette. It makes a lousy
garbage truck. What kind of car do you have?"
"It'll serve as a garbage scow," Zitka replied. The only way outta
here, though, is out through the patio. We'll have to lug them right through
the swingers."
"From what I saw, it wouldn't be too startling a sight," Bolan said
musingly. "Well, let's give it a try. You lead the way."
Zitka picked up a keycase from a corner table, then carefully
positioned a body on the floor and heaved it onto his shoulder. Bolan swung
on aboard in a fireman's carry and followed Zitka onto the porch and down
the stairway. He found it weirdly incredible that such a short time had
elapsed since he had climbed those stairs. The revelries at poolside seemed
unchanged, except that now the blonde go-going in the pool had been joined
by several others; they seemed to have some sort of contest going. Someone
shouted a greeting to Zitka, and a playful couple nearly spilled Bolan and
his corpse into the pool. Otherwise, they were totally ignored. Bolan paused
alongside a table to reposition his load. He smiled at a gargantuan-chested
cutie in a technically topless swimsuit, lifted her glass to his lips and
tasted it, then thanked her and went on. He found Zitka stuffing a body into
the rear seat of a late-model Dodge and added his own burden to the
repository.
Zitka was huffing with exertion and complaining about his feet and the
rough pavement. "One to go," Bolan declared. He was pushing at a protruding
foot and trying to close the car door.
"Let me get him," Zitka said. "I need to get into some clothes anyway.
I'll make it fast." He hurried back toward the patio. Bolan walked over to
his Corvette, took a handful of ammo from the glove compartment, and dropped
it into his coat pocket. Then he returned to the Dodge, reloaded his weapon,